


Pyroclastic

by cosmotronic



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Sex, F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 14:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14978657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: Lara aches to take. To take her privilege and her entitlement and burn it. To take her need and mould it into something primal. And to take what is offered.





	Pyroclastic

**Author's Note:**

> A little exploration of a broken Lara finding a release.
> 
> Probably closer to 2018 movie-Lara than any other iteration, but can be read as reboot-Lara too. No Sam in this one.

 

 

The floor is sticky and the air is humid and there’s a low odour that is distasteful, like a sour truth after the sweetness of a lie.

 

And it’s dark, just enough shadows cast to see shapes and forget details, forget faces.

 

The music is far too loud, a thumping rhythm that makes her eardrums ache and her sternum creak. Far too loud for conversation. Far too loud to  _ think _ .

 

She slumps against the bar, pushing her way close and holding two fingers up for the bartender. The bartender knows what it means, knows what she wants and what she came here for. She thinks the bartender might know  _ her _ , but this place isn’t about who you know or who you are.

 

Here she is not Croft. And here she can be more or less than Lara. Here she can be just another body in the swarm, a body unaffected by expectation or worry. Here she can let loose her inhibitions and come alive.

 

The others about her feel it too. She’s noticed the expectation weighing on their shoulders and clouding their faces, half-recognised it in the mirror. She’s seen in their shifting eyes the gradual relief as they come together and reduce themselves to shapes and instinct.

 

She used to come here,  _ before _ . She found it cathartic, coming here to rebel and spit in the face of the bourgeois.

 

It reminded her of a masquerade ball; the elite dancing with their delicate masks. Masks upon masks, masks laid over shaky souls. Businessmen, celebrities, politicians, people with power, people with secrets all held in shackles by their privilege and set free by this shroud of darkness.

 

She would have laughed at the absurdity, if the same truth didn’t bite her to the bone.

 

She lived amongst the low, cast aside her wealth and her status and her birth but it wasn’t enough and little by little, she let herself become the thing she mocked and she threw her caution to the wind along with her privilege and came here for more. To forget and to feel and sometimes to prove a point.

 

Anonymity is simpler.

 

The masks are made with eyes willfully blind and lips sealed shut. Mutual preservation, unwritten, unspoken.  _ Understood _ .

 

And now Lara has returned. With the scars of the island still raw on her body and in her mind.

 

The anonymity seeps into her soul and smudges the last outline of who she is and who she was and who she has  _ become _ .

 

There’s a presence at Lara’s side, bringing her back to herself. It’s too close, coming into her space unawares and pressing against her bare arm. It’s hot and sticky, the air and the touch, and she recoils at the contact and at the same time she  _ craves  _ it.

 

It’s like a hunger, one they all share.

 

Lara grabs her drinks, one for her and one for  _ her  _ and surveys the room. Looks past and through the press of bodies jostling for position and then she spots her, standing away from the main dancefloor.

 

She elbows her way free of the crush and makes her way around the edge of the room.

 

She passes the booths, all of them packed with shapeless forms; some alone, some in groups, some entangled together in the shadows. All of them here to forget and to feel. Some here to give of themselves, some here to take.

 

She draws closer to her, the woman on the edge,  _ her  _ with the uncertainty in her wide eyes and the nervousness in her busy fingers. Pangs of need and excitement holding her body whip-tight.

 

Lara aches to take. To take her privilege and her entitlement and burn it. To take her need and mould it into something primal.

 

And to take what is offered.

 

And  _ she _ will willingly give, because why else would she be here, week after week.

 

 

* * *

 

The woman only meets her eyes for a second, swallows and looks away. Takes the offered drink on reflex and opens her mouth to speak. A question perhaps, or an excuse, or a reason, but it is snatched away by the bass and the unnecessity.

 

Lara bends her lips and waits. It only ever takes a minute, before the need overpowers any hesitance or shame.

 

The woman slams back the drink, golden courage in a vial. Her black eyes focus with interest and Lara feels it like a pistol on the line. A flinch and a jump in her gut. Mounting adrenaline as the gaze lingers on her chest, her stomach, her hips, taking in her easy slouch and her boldness.

 

It’s broad strokes, details lost in the low light. Details like the tense bunching of muscles on Lara’s arms and the sheen of sweat on her skin and the long, long fingers white-knuckled around her own glass. Lara is glad of the shadows.

 

But she is ready with a smirk when the appraisal reaches her face, and the woman takes a shuddering breath and bites her lip.

 

Lara nods her head towards the dancefloor and the sweating, heaving bodies locked in private rhythms. The woman brushes past her almost roughly. It’s no accident, over-eagerness giving her fire and Lara necks her whiskey and follows.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s hotter over here and the air is thicker, heavier. The loudness of the music spreads through it, distorted and pulsing and would surely smother them if they stilled.

 

The woman is slightly shorter than Lara, and it’s a perfect fit when they move together, closer, closer. Lara behind the other, hands on her hips and pressing against her, sinking into an intimate dance.

 

She breathes heat in the woman’s ear as they sway. No words but sighs, full of suggestion and possibility. A whisper of desire as she dips lips to her partner’s neck, tasting perfume and sweat and shame and need and a pulse fluttering, fast. Lara’s teeth make eager contact and the woman gasps and presses back, head tilted into Lara’s shoulder.

 

Lara smiles into the bruise and starts to drift her hands up, up. Catching on the thin material of the woman’s dress, clinging to her burning form. Higher, palming over curves and grasping, stroking until the other can’t bear it and pulls away and spins in Lara’s arms.

 

Hunger makes a stranger bold and this woman is no exception. She grabs Lara and pulls the two of them into one beast, hip to hip and chest to chest and lips to lips. Rough, and raw. Hands grabbing, twisting in Lara’s hair and messing her ponytail. Lara grunts and kisses back with a matching passion, her ache unbearable.

 

Their lips meet harsh and irregular, dance forgotten and Lara doesn’t know if she’s imagined it when the insidious beat above them changes without warning, hitting deeper between her ribs. She moans and grabs the woman by her behind and shoves a thigh between her legs. And so they move to an altogether different rhythm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They are straining at the leash and it’s almost absurd to ask the question at this point. But it has to be asked, always. Lara knows the struggle and the honey lure of body over mind and so she murmurs, close and private, her intent.

 

She need not have worried. The words have barely been given breath before the woman is taking Lara by the hand and half-dragging her towards the exit, all shyness evaporated before their searing want.

 

It’s agony; the other dancers are packed and tangled too tightly around them, trapping them, making her skin crawl.  They push their way through, determination and sharp elbows clearing their path and soon they are stumbling together into sudden, breathtaking freedom.

 

The woman is flushed and trembling and  _ ready _ and Lara can’t stop herself from falling back into her embrace the moment they are outside. It’s cold out here, the freezing damp making their bodies steam in the sharp night air. Lara doesn't feel it, doesn't feel anything but the burn as they come together roughly, animal-crude against the wall of the building.

 

The brick is rough under her palms and she presses her body forward, eager, trapping her partner. Their lips catch, teeth tugging, tongues ardent. Whiskey sour on their hot, hot breath. Lara drops a hand between them, finds a bare thigh and drags her fingers up, coarse and shameless.

 

Her fingers meet instant arousal instead of silk or cotton or lace, and her hand shakes. She breathes deep and steadies herself and very deliberately runs her fingers over her prize.

 

The woman tears her lips away, drowning for air and mewling at the contact and the tease.  _ Begging _ .

 

Lara kisses her jaw, her ear. Pants out a ragged request that is met with an instant barrage of curses and affirmations and a head thrown back in a choke as Lara drives her fingers deep.

 

Her restraint shatters.

 

It’s been so long.

 

She’s burned and suffered for the tattered shreds of who she was. Men and gods and gaia all clawing at her and exulting over the bloody gouges they left behind. But she found her strength, on that forsaken island and she reclaimed her spirit and  _ fuck them all _ , if she doesn’t want to feel it all over again.

 

She throws all of it, all of her agony and her fear and her sin into the woman buckling beneath her and she feels alive, at last.

 

The woman lives too, she can tell. She doesn’t know what the woman’s agony is but she sees it screamed into a bitten lip and screwed up eyes. Feels it hot and wet and tight about her furious fingers.

 

Shares the weight of it as the other spreads and grasps desperately and tries to wrap liquid legs around Lara’s hips, until Lara is holding her upright with her own body. Leaning harder against the filthy brick, melting into the shadow of their souls.

 

It only takes a few minutes, two fingers deep, before the woman is quaking and collapsing and coming hard, a scream muffled in Lara’s neck and heat dripping down Lara’s hand.

 

It’s not cold any more. Their panting breaths billow into mist as they slump together against the alley wall. Lara’s aching, hunger still coiling and snapping inside her but she holds it, holds her until her partner finds her balance and smiles a glazed and shaky smile.

 

Lara smiles back, teeth and promise.

 

 

* * *

 

They end up in the back of a taxi. That’s new.

 

Lara feels the night take on a momentum she never expected. She should dig her heels, spit out her apologies and  _ leave _ but she finds instead she likes the thrill, the sugar rush. And so she goes along for the ride.

 

The taxi is grimy and smells of Saturday nights and kebabs, but the driver keeps his mouth shut and his eyes ahead. The woman is all hands, now, hands on Lara’s skin and tangled in her hair as they kiss and devour.

 

Lara moans softly, mutters wickedness between snatched breaths. What she wants, and what she wants to give in return.

 

She doesn’t pay attention to where they are going, doesn’t want to care.

 

The journey isn’t long, and soon they are stumbling from the car and into a nondescript neighbourhood. The area is clearly affluent; it’s quiet and the houses are large and dark and set back from the road, hidden behind gates and walls and electronic peace of mind.

 

The air is different here and Lara feels open and exposed, like stepping naked onto a stage and her pulse jumps and panic slips ice around her throat. The quiet, the  _ too quiet _ , it snakes around her. Stilling her, giving her caution despite her racing heart and her ache.

 

Her eyes play tricks in the sodium haze and her instincts fix upon every tell-tale flicker in the shadows, every tiny sound an alarm, the sudden curl of the woman’s fingers around her arm an ambush.

 

Lara swallows her fear. Pushes it down, back into the black bag of memory and allows herself to be led down a long gravel driveway. The woman walks quickly, surely, and Lara hurries too, the shifting crunch underfoot too loud, too uncertain, knifing her nerves.

 

She’s glad when they are inside. Inside the woman’s neat and airy hallway and away from the world and it’s dangers real and imagined. It’s not  _ safe _ , but behind closed doors they can continue to be nameless, shameless, alone and together.

 

But it’s a little awkward at first. Lara feels like she should be on her best behaviour; a polite guest in a stranger’s home, ignore their raw intimacy.

 

They are way past  _ polite _ , and Lara trembles with anticipation but she stands patiently while the woman takes off her shoes and slides the door bolts and fiddles with a keypad. Locking them in, she notes; no retreat, no escape, no interruptions.

 

She tries not to let her eyes wander while she waits. There’s a photo on the wall in the hallway. A man, stood next to the woman, smiling under a tropical sun. The woman smiles too, in the photo, but it’s a glass-fronted facade. The man is familiar and she’s almost placed him when the woman’s hand on hers brings her back from her dangerous wandering and wondering.

 

The hand is tugging her, leading her quickly past expensive decor and more photographs of a life lived behind masks. No tour, no small talk, no offer of refreshment.

 

Straight to a bedroom, softly lit and pristine. Probably not  _ the _ bedroom, but that’s to be expected.

 

The woman stops near the bed and turns to face her. Lara can see a shade of her earlier shyness returning, the cogs turning and decisions being weighed and measured and so she waits, waits for her to be  _ sure _ .

 

Waits until she bites her lip and cocks her head and drags a single finger down Lara’s chest, across her sternum and lingering. Then a flat palm, pressing warm and heavy through the cotton.  _ Stay _ .

 

Lara stays, shackled and rooted. The woman moves swiftly; steps back and pulls her dress up and off. Bold and eager, a taunting display. She’s wearing a very expensive bra, and nothing else.

 

The lights are set low to paint shadows deep and harsh over feminine curves, defined outlines and contours that make Lara’s lips part and her breath quicken. She can see the rise and fall of her partner’s chest, lace and enticement. Long legs, parted and smooth and the clear hints of arousal shining on skin, sharp and sweet-tasting in the air.

 

The single shot of whiskey from earlier does nothing to blunt Lara’s senses, or her smouldering need.

 

She growls.

 

The woman smirks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

And that’s how they begin. It’s how they would have always begun, away from the dirty urgency of the club. Away from their impulsive public displays and away from the shield of anonymity.

 

Lara wonders, if they’d met by chance in a coffee shop or a museum or in line for groceries, would their course have been so different? Or at university, if Lara had been bold enough to smile at this woman across a packed lecture theatre. Would they still have this?

 

Lara remembers the man in the photograph, remembers the agony in the woman’s kisses.

 

Probably not.

 

The woman steps close, intruding into Lara’s thoughts and breaking her reflection.  Lara kisses her. Bends to her chest, laying tongue and teeth to the curve above the lacy line of her bra. Her hands grasp over the material and she feels the hidden warmth filling her palms, deliciously. She tugs one cup down and wraps her lips about a hard nipple.

 

The woman gasps at the sharp edges of Lara’s teeth. Hands in her hair again, holding her close and then pushing her down after a few moments of teasing. Down, down and Lara knows this play, knows what she needs to do.

 

She sinks to her knees. Her hands resting lightly on the woman’s thighs and her face a whisper away from the woman's flat stomach. She breathes in deeply. The scent of salt and need fills her and she moans and returns her lips to the soft skin under her, kissing down the last few inches.

 

She breathes out, blowing her own need across sensitive nerves and the woman trembles and twists her hand tight into Lara’s hair, loose now and fallen about her shoulders.

 

The touch of Lara’s tongue is her spark. And the moans, the curses and the implorations that fill the air are her catalyst. It’s a reaction, sure and irreversible, and the woman shudders and yields and together they burn.

 

It’s unstable, their reaction. Volatile. The woman nearly melts, legs shaking after only a few moments. Lara grips her thighs tighter and holds her steady, fingertips bruising into the pale flesh. It’ll mark; it’ll be an uncomfortable  _ reminder _ later, but Lara doesn’t care. Already they are living in the danger, in the apex of the thrill.

 

She keeps up the eager play of her tongue, circling and flicking and tasting all the woman has to offer.

 

The hand in her hair is joined by another, fingers tangling, tugging, pulling her tight until the offering of desire becomes her world and she’s drowning,  _ drowning _ and suffocating and aching.

 

There’s a crescendo of harsh breaths and the woman above her groans  _ loud _ and jerks and grinds. It’s a rough release, another dirty bomb in the night. But Lara has the way of it it now, pride and shame warring in the hollow place within her.

 

The woman sways and Lara slows, but she doesn’t stop and it’s too much, too soon. The hands gripping her head push her away, push her down until she’s sat back on her heels, looking up at a form wrecked and imperfect. At the sheen of sweat on skin, the taut and trembling body and the tossed back head.

 

She waits.

 

The woman rolls her head down, smiles weakly. Strokes her hands over Lara’s hair, her reddened cheeks, cupping her slick chin.

 

Lara turns her face into it, kissing the palm even while she struggles to catch her breath.

 

It’s so  _ hot _ , hotter even than the club earlier. Heat trapped around them, with the windows shut tight and their bodies radiating the burn of her lust and the woman’s satisfaction.

 

She can’t breathe and it’s enough to send her slipping into unreality, but even as her chest heaves and her head spins she whispers for more and her partner hears it.

 

The woman steps back and sinks to the edge of the bed, high and proud. She spreads her legs and Lara surges forward. The hardwood floor is a devil on her knees but Lara doesn’t rise to her feet; she bows, she bends, she  _ worships _ .

 

It’s not her play, not any more. She’s not the naive rebel who hated the game and she’s not the bold phoenix who rose from bitter ashes, born in flame and blood on that island. It’s more and less than that.

 

The club and the encounter in the filthy alley, that was all just a prelude to this dream.

 

She’s gone further than she ever meant to, but she knows she will return to this point, in this place or another. They both will. Still nameless, still faceless, but  _ knowing _ .

 

She had thought the anonymity to be a release, a  _ relief _ . A cool balm and a scalding shower to wash away her regret, her name and her cares.

 

But there’s blood too, ground in deep under her nails and rust-red on her soul. She’s only human and she’s alive because of her fall. The taste of the woman before her is gold and glory and redemption and there’s a part of her that wants to break away and sob and scream and cry her shame into the black night.

 

But she doesn’t.

 

She wants to beg a name, beg familiarity and comfort.

 

But she won’t.

 

She lifts the woman’s long smooth leg over her shoulder and presses deeper, tongue and fingers sinking into the heat. Caged; surrounded by moans and shivers, sensory exhilaration, a drug.

 

And when the woman commands her to touch herself Lara snaps to it, shoving her free hand inside her jeans and pushing her soaked underwear aside.

 

She rubs herself urgently, while she tries to focus on her lips and tongue and thrusting fingers, to focus on pleasuring the other. But she’s so ready and soon she’s gasping and shuddering and teetering on the edge.

 

The last of her control slipping away. The last of her restraints, those stubborn knots that she thought could never be stripped. Ropes that bind her; but keep her safe and strong and on top.

 

So long as she holds the leash.

 

She casts the ropes aside, willingly.

 

And when the woman tells her to come, she does.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for getting this far. I have some stories in other fandoms and a tumblr @cosmotronic87 if that's your thing.


End file.
